Thanksgiving is for Turkeys

Gobble Gobble.
This is the hardest and the best day yet...since...
I wake up feeling like crap-o-la.
I go through the day, pick up my dad's ashes.
He's in three containers so we can all have some.
I place him in the living room, invite the imaginary him to dinner, set the Thanksgiving table with beautiful linens and dishes from my wedding.
I smell the smells. I take a shower, put on perfume. I feel like my mother. I miss my father.
I smell the smells. The hot kitchen and scents, I remember the same thing from when I was a kid.
I remember the hot house and the front door letting drafts of cold November air in; women in fur coats ushering children first, dish-to-share in hand.
I'd be lucky if they brushed past me. The perfume again.
Older men crouch down and smooch - their moustaches scratching my face. They walk in, loud, scratching bellies.
My mom, fire in her eyes, eager, exhausted, beautiful.
My dad already setting up the pool table in the basement. Music is playing. I'm stealing food. Hiding so I don't have to do work. My dad gives me the crispiest pieces of turkey, informing me that they are the best.

I'm so happy and sad today.

Amen.